and animal husbandry, but alongside those were books on astronomy, botany, physics, physiognomy, and the like. Since those subjects, while interesting, weren’t quite what she was in the mood for at present, she continued on.
The next row of shelves dealt with history and appeared to include everything from the Trojan War forward, unless she counted the Bible that she’d spotted sitting on a bookstand near the door, which technically took them all the way back to Adam and Eve. But she had had enough news about the war with the French that she was not inclined to pull any histories from the shelves. And she already studied her Bible on a daily basis.
She continued on through the rows of bookshelves, eventually locating a small section dedicated to literature, which delighted her. After thumbing through several, she eventually decided upon the novel Evelina, a delightful discovery, and a book of poetry by William Blake and then settled into a small upholstered chair in a back corner of the room—completely hidden and wonderfully solitary. She removed her spectacles from her pocket and put them on and then allowed the words of Blake to weave a soft, musical rhythm in her head.
***
George made it past Cantwell’s butler merely by handing the man his calling card and glaring at him. From there, it was obvious where the wedding luncheon was being held simply because one needed only to follow the sounds of the guests coming down the main corridor.
He eventually arrived at the ballroom, not surprised to realize he knew many of the people present—the Duke and Duchess of Atherton and Lord Bledsoe and his wife appeared to have made the journey from London. George discreetly avoided the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashworth, who were neighbors of Lord Cantwell and were the parents of Lady Louisa, the woman to whom George had been betrothed eight long years ago. He was well over whatever attachment he had formed to Lady Louisa, but as he had important work to do today, he didn’t need the distraction that would come from potentially rehashing events of the past.
Eventually, he spied Phillip Osbourne and subtly caught his attention. Osbourne excused himself from the guests with whom he was speaking and came directly to George.
“You’re here,” Osbourne said.
“As you see,” George replied. “Where do you suggest we talk?” he added in low tones.
“The library,” Osbourne said. “It’s the first door on the left when you take the corridor that runs parallel to this one.”
Before Osbourne could say any more, however, the bride and groom approached them, and George could tell by the expression on the new Lady Cantwell’s face that she was surprised to see him—as, of course, she would be, having not invited him herself.
Lady Cantwell was the image of loveliness and gentility. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman George had ever seen. Her features were as though painted by a Renaissance master: alabaster skin, shining blonde hair, and eyes of the deepest blue. He doubted there was a man alive who, upon beholding her, would not have become her instant admirer. George certainly had. But alas, she had been off the marriage market since childhood, promised to the Marquess of Ashworth’s heir until recently. George had seriously considered marrying Lady Elizabeth when she’d returned to London this Season, despite the disrepute of her father, the Duke of Marwood. But George had taken his eye off the prize—and Cantwell had been the victor.
He nodded to Lord Cantwell and bowed over Lady Cantwell’s hand. “Please forgive me for intruding on your special occasion as an uninvited guest,” he said to her. Cantwell was studying George a bit too closely for his liking.
“He is not entirely uninvited,” Osbourne said in response to his brother’s unasked question. “I extended the invitation to him, you see, and as I’m the brother of the groom, I presumed I could invite a guest if I wished.”
“Aylesham is always a welcome addition,” Lord Cantwell said, still studying George.
George’s fingers instinctively sought out his quizzing glass. “Many thanks,” he replied. “Lady Cantwell, may I offer my congratulations to you and Lord Cantwell on your nuptials,” he said. “However, I would be dishonest if I didn’t say that I am disappointed—or perhaps envious is a better word. He is an extraordinarily fortunate man. I hope he knows that.”
“Thank you,” she replied, gazing at George with those soul-deep blue eyes of hers. “I am humbled and grateful for your words.”
She truly was the most perfectly beautiful woman, and